Midnight Theater: A Visage of Lies

Here it is folks, the play that I wrote last year in short story form. This is the prologue, and since I'm a bit lazy to edit it, this is more like a draft of a short story; it's short and straight to the point. I'm working on the later chapters as of today.



Prologue: Who Is It?

“Perhaps, my dear, you would like to take some rest?” said the painter, looking up from the canvas.

“Why yes, I could use a cup of tea right now. Is the painting finished?” she asked, her back stiff and uncomfortable.

“No, but a couple more hours should do it.”

“May I see it now?”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”

And so Gladys rose from her chair, her glowing white skin basked under the sun. Her black hair was flowing with the autumn breeze coming from the open window, and her green eyes sparkled. As she spoke her lips parted in such a way that only an artist can truly appreciate its beauty.

Such lips are meant for a lover’s kiss, the painter thought.

The painter stood up and ran a paint-stained hand over his brow, wiping the sweat. His hair was all grey, and his shoulder drooped down. One can deduce from these traits alone that life has been none too pleasant for him. However, one look from his eyes and one will see that, although his countenance was showing age, those blue orbs speak of nothing but passion and energy, such that no amount of time can wear them down.

The young lady walked to the artist, and as her eyes fell on the canvas, her breathing stopped, her cheeks blushed, and she smiled delightfully. She said,

“Oh, Albert, you flatter me! Surely this lovely lady is not yours truly?”

“Yes, indeed it is you, young lady. Although I must confess that the picture does not even come close to justifying your true beauty,” the painter said with a tired smile. Gladys laughed, and beamed at him.

“I can’t wait for you to finish it,” she said.

“Neither can I,” Albert said, “However, I fear that I have left some rough edges on your beautiful dress in the painting, and I must insist that I correct them before I dare take a rest, lest my memory fails me later. Would you mind terribly if I take a moment to do it?”

“Of course not, Albert,” Gladys said with that oh-so delightful smile.

Albert smiled, and he once again took his seat. As he began stroking his brush on the canvas, Gladys strolled about in the room in which this particular event was happening.

It was not a terribly big room. However, given the sparse furniture, it was plenty spacious. The room gave her a sense of peace, and old though it maybe, it was well taken care of. The singularly pleasant aspect of the room was that the window was facing a lovely garden, and this window she inspected with great interest. The frames were made of oak, and the carvings adorning it were of a very detailed craftsmanship. It stood as a stark contrast to an otherwise empty and undecorated room.

As per mentioned, there were scant any furniture in the room, save for the two chairs that the painter and Gladys was using, and a table where the artist put his paints. There was however, a rather large object which looks like a veiled painting, lying by the wall at the far corner of the room. This piqued the young lady’s interest, and she strolled there to pick it up. The painter did not notice this, as his concentration was focused on the painting he was working on.

The veil dropped to the floor when the lady picked it up. At the sight of what was on the canvas, the young lady gasped.

It was an oil painting set on an old white canvas. The wooden frame was old and fragile, and she felt that were her grip was a little bit stronger, the frames may have crumbled in her hand. This confused Gladys, for although the frame was aged, the colours of the painting looked as if it was still brand new.

However, what startled her most was the painting itself; it was a portrait of a young lady, standing on what seemed to be a porch overlooking a river. She was beautiful, the most beautiful lady she has ever seen in her life. No words can ever describe her beauty. It was not because of the lady’s physical traits – a pair of hazel eyes set on a round face, a fair skin, jet-black hair, and lips so full and seductive – but rather, it was how the painting depicted this lady. One look and Gladys could tell that the portrait was painted by someone who loved the lady deeply. The effect was such that made Gladys felt like she was falling in love with the woman in the picture.

She inspected the painting further. The colour and the texture was an example of perfect and strong brush strokes that sets the mood for the entire painting. The colours were somewhat gloomy and cold, and out of all the colours, red seemed to dominate the entire scene. Yet it was these details that disturbed Gladys. It was as though the lady in the painting was alive. Gladys even felt that she could see the individual veins behind that picturesque face. It was gorgeous and repulsive at the same time.

“What do you think of that painting?”

Gladys turned around, and found that the painter was standing next to her, looking at her with grave eyes.

“I’m sorry Albert, but I couldn’t help myself. Who made this painting?” she asked. “It’s…. beautiful.”

“Beautiful on the outside, at least,” Albert said. He gazed at the painting with empty eyes. “But I see you hesitated when you said that it was beautiful. Tell me, dear Gladys, what do you truly feel about this painting?”

Gladys fumbled for a proper word in her mind, only to find that there was none that were fit enough to describe it. Instead, she said “I must admit that I can’t find any defects in this painting…”

“But?” Albert’s face was emotionless, and he was still gazing at the picture.

“But I know that there is something terribly wrong about this painting. The colours…. They’re just not right, somehow.”

Albert sighed at this. He took the painting carefully from her hands, and he set them on the table. He took the chairs and put them on the opposite ends of the table, and motioned for Gladys to take a seat.

“You have keen eyes, young lady. You noticed the only thing that’s wrong with it and, by doing so, you have noticed the singular thing that made this painting as beautiful as it is.” Albert sat down on the opposite chair, his eyes still fixed on the portrait.

“Red,” Gladys said.

“Aye, red.”

“Who painted this, Albert? And who is the lady in the picture?” asked Gladys.

Albert fixed his eyes on Gladys. He said, “Do you really want to know, my dear?”

To which Gladys replied, “I’m curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“But the answer brought it back.”

Albert smiled at her reply. “Then I suppose there is no harm in telling you the truth behind this painting then.”

He took a deep breath, and he spoke, in manner of a grandfather telling his grandchild a bedtime story.

“There is, by chance, a love story that accompanies this painting you’re looking at now. A most unpleasant and peculiar love story, but it is a love story nonetheless.”

Gladys leaned forward on her chair.

“Listen closely.”